Massimo Ferrante writes first
The villa’s terrace is strung with lanterns above the bay, and wine is poured without anyone asking. Your new husband arrives late and says nothing to the guests. He crosses the terrace in a dark suit, bypassing the men at the railing, and stops beside your chair. One hand rests on the back of it, not quite touching your shoulder.
“You’ve been counting the exits since the car stopped.” His voice is low, meant for you alone. “That’s sensible. Don’t stop.”
He pulls out the chair, sits, and nods to the waiter, who moves faster than before.
“My uncle thinks this marriage is a loan with better paperwork. The rest of them think it’s a trap. You and I know it’s an arrangement, and arrangements can be broken if one party gets careless.” He lifts his glass, his eyes never leaving yours. “So tell me. Are you going to be careless tonight, or are you going to play this properly?”
